


The Art of Coming Home

by princessofmind



Series: Secret Santa Homestuck 2012 [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Christmas, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:12:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofmind/pseuds/princessofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were lots of people in Kanaya’s unit.  She’d warned you, during her last call, that it might be terribly late in the evening if she could even get through at all.  There were many men whose wives had infants or were currently pregnant, who’d never had to spend a Christmas without their spouse, and it just didn’t feel right to push to the front of the line when Roxy and yourself were used to living with the empty seats and presents that would stay unwrapped for far too long.  [Written for Secret Santa Homestuck 2012]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Coming Home

Roxy fell asleep on your lap waiting for the call.

The house was decorated, there were piles of presents under the tree, and the six year old had gorged herself on Christmas cookies before her bath, leaving her warm and full and drowsy. But there was a melancholy in the air as she curled up under your chin, wrapped up in your latest completed quilting project as she watched A Christmas Story roll across the television for the third time a row. You can see the snow falling outside the wall-to-wall windows of your apartment’s living room, and while plenty of the white stuff used to be a sure-fire guarantee of a great Christmas, you couldn’t help but share in your daughter’s gloomy mood.

There were lots of people in Kanaya’s unit. She’d warned you, during her last call, that it might be terribly late in the evening if she could even get through at all. There were many men whose wives had infants or were currently pregnant, who’d never had to spend a Christmas without their spouse, and it just didn’t feel right to push to the front of the line when Roxy and yourself were used to living with the empty seats and presents that would stay unwrapped for far too long. You wish that she was a bit more selfish, especially with Roxy blatantly refusing to sleep until her mother called.

When you’d married Kanaya, a future in the military hadn’t been on the horizon, and it had almost broken your spirit when she announced over dinner, your future daughter kicking against the table in your womb, that there was a desperate need for medical professionals in the Middle East. She would spend more time tending to civilians than soldiers, and her heritage and familiarity with the language made her more than perfect for the position. “It’s more good than I’m doing here,” she said quietly as you stared into your glass to lemonade. “This is an opportunity to help my people in a truly meaningful way, and I can’t just say no.”

Every time she came back, she stayed a little longer; this year she was home to celebrate Roxy’s birthday, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen your little bundle of mischief so happy before. Every time, you thought she would be home for good, would finally settle down with a practice in town and put her uniform away, but the call would eventually come, and she’d hold you in bed while you tried not to scream and cry your frustration, whispering words you only half understood and didn’t really care to.

Roxy always seems to take it better than you do, and you think that because it upsets you so that she feels she can’t truly mourn the absence of her other mother. She notices how when Kanaya first leaves you turn all the pictures in the apartment to face down, the sight of your wife’s gentle smile sending knives through your heart. You knit scarves and sew blankets with such fervor that you always have her entire unit outfitted before she’s even halfway done with her time overseas. You never pick up the phone for the first week, although Roxy is always quick to, and you wish that you weren’t so bitter and hurt all the time.

Marrying Kanaya was the happiest moment in your life, followed very closely to the moment you first held Roxy in your arms, and the fact that you treasure her so much only makes the separation that much harder. You could stop her, you know you could, but she’d never forgive you just like you’d never forgive yourself. So here you lie, with your daughter sleeping on your chest and your phone resting by your head on the back of the couch. You can’t remember the last time the three of you spent a Christmas together, and the voices from the television are nothing more than unintelligible murmurs in the background as you finally succumb to the exhaustion that’s been eating at you all day.

The call never comes.

You breathe in the steam of your coffee as Roxy tears open her presents, cooing over her American Girl doll and the computer games she’d been eyeing every time you went on a trip to the Best Buy. The scarf she has wrapped around her is too long, too purple, and it’s exactly how she likes it. It trails on the floor behind her as she checks under the tree for any lingering presents that aren’t for Kanaya.

“Mama, Santa hid one for you at the back of the tree!”

Arching an eyebrow, you hold your hand out for the small, red-wrapped package, and Roxy is whining in displeasure as you meticulously peel the tape off and try not to roll your eyes at the familiar chicken scratch writing on the label. You regret every day giving Dave a key to the apartment, and you’d bet every crochet hook in your house that he snuck in to leave the package after you and Roxy dozed off on the couch. The package is a small box with a slip of plain white paper inside, and you’re tentative when you open it (because some of the things your brother leaves you can be quite inappropriate for young eyes, despite how amusing you may find them).

“Go to the coat closet in the main lobby for your present,” Roxy reads slowly, her scarf tickling against your neck as she leans over the back of the couch to get a good look at the slip of paper. “And don’t dawdle you flighty broad. Love, Dave. Mama, what’s a flighty broad?”

“It’s just another one of your uncles affectionate nicknames for me,” you sigh, standing and pulling your peacoat on over your pajamas and not bothering to change out of your slippers. Roxy just pulls her housecoat on over her nightgown, and while normally you’d be loathe to leave the apartment in such a state, it’s eight o’clock on Christmas Day and the doorman certainly won’t be judging anyone for not wanting to make themselves presentable. Besides, you aren’t even leaving the building.

Roxy jumps down the last three stairs the entire way down, and you’re yawning in to the cuff of your coat as you walk into the lavishly decorated lobby. It’s empty in a way it never is, even on the weekends, and there’s a lone figure standing by the spinning doors that your daughter would spend all day playing in if the doormen didn’t chase her off to the elevator with stern expressions but affectionate eyes. “Sorry to bother you,” you say, one hand resting between Roxy’s shoulder blades as you approach the man, “but I have strict instructions to retrieve my Christmas present from the coat room.”

There’s a twinkle in the man’s eyes that reminds you a little too much of your dear brother, but he leads you behind the desk to the unassuming door to the coat closet. From his pocket, he unlocks the door, and with a tip of his hat and a much too wide smile, he leaves the two of you to enter the musty room alone.

“I swear, if David is sending me on another treasure hunt throughout the entire building, he will not be joining us for Christmas dinner,” you grumble, holding on to Roxy by her scarf and groping blindly for the lightswitch.

“I assure you, darling, he only has your best intentions at heart.”

Roxy screams, and you are so startled that you release her to go flying into the darkness where she eventually collides with someone else and falls to the floor in a heap. Your efforts to find the lightswitch redouble as a familiar laugh, too deep to be a giggle but too feminine to be a chuckle, assaults your ears. “Do you think your scarf is quite long enough?” the voice says, and the overhead light is so bright that you’re temporarily blinded.

Her hair is shorn short, like it always is just for the ease of keeping it clean and out of her face. Already dark skin is further darkened by the constant exposure to the sun, and she’s wearing her glasses which she only does when she’s tired. Sprawled out on the cold floorboards of the coat closet, she’s wearing jeans and a sweatshirt from some college neither of you attended, and she’s holding Roxy to her as if the little girl was the most important thing in the world to her.

“I can see you’ve not been paying attention to your fashion sense while I’ve been away,” Kanaya teases gently, and you’re really trying to scowl at her through your tears, but it’s not seconds later before you’re on the floor with the two most important ladies in your life, surrounded by the smell of mothballs and stale air and not a single festive decoration in sight, but the press of her lips against yours is the best gift you could ever hope to recieve.


End file.
